Nic Tatano - Jillian Spectre and the Dream Weaver

"Thanks." He places his books and coffee on the table as he sits down and slides his chair closer to the table, then extends his hand. "Trip Logan."

My hand looks tiny and disappears into his as we shake. "Jillian Spectre."

His handshake is gentle despite his size. He cocks his head toward my novel. "You're not actually reading that mind-numbing thing, are you?"

I close the book and slide it off to the side. "I made a valiant attempt, but I started to lose interest at Call me Ishmael ."

"Ah, yes, I remember this school's concept of Modern Literature. When I took it we were reading the Rosetta Stone."

I laugh and take in this vision as he sips his coffee. The guy's built like a linebacker: incredibly broad shoulders, huge ripped biceps straining to escape from his short sleeved shirt, forearms with bulging veins that belong on a blacksmith. One of those men whose chest looks twice as wide as his waist. He obviously lives in the gym. At least six-foot-four, maybe taller. He looks like he could bench press a Toyota but has a silky smooth voice. Throw in the angles-and-planes face, thick black hair, dark brown eyes and dimples, and my heart is beginning to flutter. I think back to Ryan's favorite phrase when he sees a beautiful woman. "I'm your boyfriend, but I'm not dead."

I'm not dead either. Besides, with Roxanne's news that Jake has a bit of a wandering eye, I could just be on a scouting mission for her, seeking out young men built like Thor.

Yeah, let's go with that.

I look at his stack of books, a collection of history and political science. "Let me guess…pre-law?"

He nods. "You're very perceptive. I start applying in a couple of months."

"Oh, so you're a senior."

"Yep."

"What kind of law do you want to practice?"

"Criminal. I'd love to be a prosecutor, put bad guys away."

"Very noble. So, not going for the big bucks?"

"Maybe someday, but right now I just want to make the world a better place."

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

He locks his spectacular deep-set eyes with me and it's all I can do to remind myself I'm taken. "I realize that's kind of a naive rose colored glasses way to look at things, but it feels good to help people. So, what do you wanna do?"

"Same deal. Help people. You might say it's in my blood. But right now I don't have a major." I sip my coffee and then it hits me. He's taking political science. "Hey, you ever have a teacher named Ms. Cruise?"

"The Cruise Missile? Nah, I had someone else for freshman poly sci. But I know who she is. Anyway, she apparently knows her subject matter. Served a couple of terms in Congress. She was known for sleeping around there, too."

"What do you mean… too ?"

"She, uh…well, she has quite the reputation around here. Let's just say it's possible for male students to get extra credit, if you get my drift."

"They call her the Cruise Missile?"

"Legend has it that she zeroes in on one student every semester like a heat seeking missile. Apparently her affairs with freshmen are legendary around here."

"So why is she still teaching here?"

"Because legend has it she also had an affair with the college president, and she's holding that little bit of information over his head. Along with some incriminating photos."

"Wow. I guess I'm not in high school anymore."

"Nope. Welcome to the real world."

Ten minutes worth of great conversation later, he looks at his watch. "Well, off to class." He stands up, slugs down the rest of his coffee and tosses the empty cup in a nearby trash can. "It was nice meeting you, Jillian."

"You too, Trip. See you around the campus."

He grabs his books. "So, uh…would it be too forward of me to ask for your phone number?"

"It wouldn't, if I didn't have a boyfriend."

He playfully puts out his lower lip in a pout. "Figures. The good ones are always taken. Well, see you later."

"Yeah," I say, as he turns and heads out of the room, leaving in his wake a sea of longing looks from every girl in the place.

Including me.

The aforementioned "hot teacher" Rebecca Cruise holds court in a classroom that looks like an amphitheater and has what is commonly known as stadium seating, with the rows sloped downward toward the teacher. I've been in the room for another class, so it's easy to focus on it as I stretch out on the couch. I'm going to materialize in the back row during Jake's class so I can make a quick, unnoticed arrival and getaway.

What I don't expect is to arrive in the dark.

The only light in the room is provided by a projector which is filling the front wall with a PowerPoint presentation while the teacher strolls by the front row.

She comes as advertised.

Ms. Cruise is a tall, stunning, blue-eyed blonde, maybe five-nine with a short leather skirt showing off spectacular legs atop red four inch heels and a tight gathered burgundy top that leaves little to the imagination. Not exactly the costume de riguer for a college professor, as she looks more like a middle-aged party girl in search of a red plastic cup. If you looked up "cougar" in the dictionary, you'd see her photo. A quick look around the room shows the class is comprised mostly of guys, all of whom are riveted as she prances around the room. I spot Jake in the front row, the glow from the projection lighting up his face and the fact that he's practically drooling over his teacher as he leans forward on the desk.

Luckily in the last row it's pitch dark, so I'm unnoticed. Besides, no one's sitting back here anyway, as most of the class is crammed into the front half of the room.

Anyway, she's whipping through slides that are highlighting some of the more notable revolutionaries in history, many of whom are guests of the state. (Fuzzball's cute little term for "prisoners.")

"Political resistance has always been the instrument of change throughout history," she says. "It is necessary for societal growth. It's up to each of you to carry the torch and challenge authority. And you don't need a degree to do that, you can start now. Use your freedom of speech." She launches into this wild monologue which tells me she's a stereotypical radical professor whose main objective is not to teach but to influence her students with her own views.

Then, she says something that makes me sit bolt upright.

"It's a shame that the Spectre phone crashed, because it was on the way to changing society for the better."

My eyes narrow as she extols the virtues of my father, his failed invention, and how it would have allowed people to live in the present and not place any trust in blind faith. I look around the room and see heads nodding in agreement.

Including Jake's.

Which makes no sense. Jake knows how evil my father was. I mean, the guy tried to kill Roxanne, the supposed love of Jake's life. Jake hates him with a passion.

But right now he's smiling, agreeing with the lunatic stuff his teacher is spouting.

So what is this woman doing to him and every other student in this class? And how the hell is she doing it?

This is more than a guy being all gaga over a hot woman. This is something else.

Is she a minion of my father? Is it possible she's got some mind controlling powers? If she's got powers, Sebastien will know.

Finally, after this five minute manifesto about how to possibly recapture the false utopia promised by the Spectre phone, I've had enough.

"Excuse me, I'm just curious," I yell, stopping her in her tracks.

She shades her eyes with her palm as she moves away from the projector, squinting in vain to see who's interrupted her from the back of the room. I know there's no way she can see me in the dark. "Yes?"

"Well, you know, I pay forty grand in tuition in order to learn about political science, not to listen to your opinions. Would it be possible for you to stick to the curriculum and leave your personal views at home?"